Mr and Mrs Bickerson
by pancakesareking
Summary: SLASH[SpotRace] Spot, the colorblind blond, and Race, the Italian cutey. Poking, kissing, and bickering ensues. Not to mention a substantial amount of humor.


Hello, kiddies!  
  
I'm back, with a whole new Race/Spot adventure. If you're slash crazy, you can see David/Jack, but they can just be friend too.  
  
I've been meaning to write a Race/Spot story for quite some time now, but I couldn't get any ideas, until I thought of my old friend whom I was smitten with. He was colorblind, and he could only see things in shades of gray. It's so easy to get ideas from every day life.  
  
Ok, this is dedicated to Shadowlands-you had damn well better read this! I hope this can be called one of my best.  
  
Oh, and I don't have a beta, so if anyone wants to help...I miss typos easily. I mean, I'm in Journalism, and I'm one of the best there, but I wouldn't notice a typo if it bit me in the ass! So, uh, I apologize ahead of time for any misspelled words, or grammatical errors.  
  
Summary: Uh, Spot and Race, flashbacks and accusations, lots of poking, lots of bickering.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, and I got the title from and episode of Angel. I just thought it kind of fit.  
  
ENJOY!  
  
~Mr. And Mrs. Bickerson~  
  
Sunlight filtered in through the open window, highlighting the gray wool lump situated on the bed. Birds were chirping, children were laughing, and an alarm clock was blaring right out of arms reach. The lump began to grumble incoherently first, before actual words came into the picture. Spot Conlon didn't like morning and he didn't mind letting the world know.  
  
And let the world know he did, starting with every four letter word he knew.  
  
Which was normal, in the house of Conlon. Settled in his little cocoon of warmth and happiness, Spot listened to the muffled sounds of his mother cooking breakfast. Well, she called it cooking breakfast. He called it making coffee and 'cooking' a cigarette. Somehow, in the process, her high- heeled shoes dug into the plastic kitchen floor of their apartment. Somehow—call it a gift of nature—the horrible clacking noise echoed into Spot's room.  
  
Mrs. Conlon was the reason her son hated coffee, and may lightning strike her if she didn't know it. Spot groaned; he wanted to kill the bastard who had invented the alarm clock. Probably some crackpot fool who wanted to make the world a better place. What was so wrong with catching a little shuteye once in a while?  
  
"Sean! Anthony is on his way over. Get your lazy ass out of bed!" Ah, the love of a mother. Her voice was rough, albeit muffled; she hadn't had her coffee yet. Man, did Spot feel sorry for Race when his mom answered the door.  
  
Speaking of Race, they needed to have a little chat. Something had happened the night before, something that was monumental. Something so big it would probably be in the newspapers when Spot actually ventured into the light of day. Something that could kick Godzilla's ass, it was so gargantuan. The night before, Anthony Racetrack Higgins had offered a sip of his drink at the movies.  
  
Okay, now that he thought about it, it didn't seem *so* big. Still...Spot wished there was a bit more room in his wool cave to move his hair behind his ear. A few stray hairs were tickling his nose, and it was distracting. He needed his own full attention to mentally rant about the importance of Race's...something!  
  
Race didn't share. It was one of his rules. Food was his, clothes were his, and drinks were his. Nothing wasn't his. As long as it was his it was no one else's. Wait...yeah. Yeah, that was right. Race was greedy. Well—Spot couldn't stand saying something negative about his best friend—that wasn't necessarily true. Race was a nice guy, who offered money to other gamblers, and gave advice to homeless people (like that time he told the man sleeping on a dog bed to "get a job and save the streets for the rats"). Race could be a nice guy.  
  
"Spotty? You here?" Ah. He could also be a very punctual guy. And talkative. Very, very talkative. "Your ma blew smoke in my face. I would be insulted, 'cept I didn't smell coffee on her breath, so I'm willing to accept that as your ma's morning hostility ritual. I had a really nice good morning ready for her, too, and I was going to compliment her hair, and I hope you're not naked anymore, but there were curlers in her hair, and it ain't so pretty as it is scary. Deep breath, Spotty, it's kinda chilly today."  
  
"I'll melt!" Spot cried once his nice blanket was gone. And it...did his eyes mistake him, or did Race just throw his blanket on the floor? Nobody threw his blanket on the floor. Apparently, his little Italian friend caught his shocked stare.  
  
"Oh come on! It smells like..." He picked it up quickly and sniffed it before throwing it back down again. "Cotton candy and tomatoes. Have you been eating in your room again?"  
  
Spot glared. He growled. He would have spit, but it would have landed on his blanket. Clad in his boxers, hair in disarray, Spot Conlon got up in Race's face and...Sneezed. And, he was back to glaring.  
  
"You're wearing that cologne again! You know I'm allergic to that cologne!" Unable to do much else, Spot jabbed his finger into Race's chest as threateningly as possible. In his own mind, he had a pretty damn good threat finger.  
  
Race snorted and pushed Spots hand away. "Yeah, but it's your favorite. You like the way it smells."  
  
Spot pouted. "Ass."  
  
"Weirdo."  
  
"Loser."  
  
"Best friend of a loser!"  
  
Race laughed. "Touché. Now put on some clothes. I don't know if you realized, but it's cold enough to freeze a guys balls off and your turning blue."  
  
Spot couldn't resist. "Yeah, well...that's what happens when you're colorblind. I thought I looked really tan this morning."  
  
He watched as his best friends face crumpled, excepting his large brown eyes, which got even larger. Now those eyes could kick Godzilla's ass!  
  
"Ah, Spotty, I'm sorry, I forget sometimes, and you're completely trying to make me feel guilty! Well, see if I help you pick out an outfit today!"  
  
Spot looked horror stricken for a moment. He suddenly remembered that he and Race had color coded all of his clothes. Ha. As if Race could best him!  
  
"Everything's color coded. No longer is all simply gray, it is simply gray and post-it."  
  
Race laughed. "Come on. I'm thinking today you should wear the blue button- down and khaki's."  
  
Spot snorted as he walked over to his closet. "What the hell for, my coming out party?"  
  
"Don't be such a smart-ass. We're going to a nice restaurant for lunch."  
  
"Race, you're the cheapest guy I know. Why would you spend money on me? I mean, first with the drink, now with the restaurant. I don't know what to think!"  
  
Race looked baffled for a moment. "What drink? Oh! Spot, you were choking on popcorn, or do you not remember. My drink. Jesus, who remembers shit like that?"  
  
Time to pull out the old threat finger. "Duh, I should think you offering a drink is a little more important than me choking."  
  
There was an awkward pause, in which Spot's finger hung in the air inches from Race's chest, and Race's face took on a horribly funny-looking state of confusion. That was when the laughing began. Seconds later was the fight.  
  
"That's the green!" Poke.  
  
"No, it's the blue!" Wave.  
  
"The post-it says green!" Poke.  
  
"I know you're lying because this handwriting isn't readable!" Rip.  
  
"Says who?"  
  
"Says me, you nit-wit! It's as blue as your eyes!"  
  
"And as ugly as your face!"  
  
"I thought we got past the face jokes."  
  
"I couldn't think of anything else."  
  
"I know for a fact there was lot's of blind jokes in your brain. You're not past the face jokes..."  
  
"Look, I can explain."  
  
"I don't wanna hear it."  
  
"Come on, I like the face jokes."  
  
"Are you kidding? You and the face jokes are joined at the hip!"  
  
Spot put his hand out and Race slapped it. "Oh, that was good Racey. I gotta hand it to ya, that was good."  
  
Race looked smug. "Okay. So, the green, then?"  
  
"No, idiot, the blue." Spot rolled his eyes as if it was obvious. Then he realized what he had said. "You tricked me!"  
  
"What?" The dirty bastard had the balls to look insulted! Oh, that was it...Spot was going to borrow some of his mothers press on nails and poke a hole in the stupid Italian. That would show him!  
  
Just as he was turning to leave the room, Race's hand snatched out to grab his, pulling him back. Which caused a chain of events. One was that Spot hit Race, which led to a big pile of Sprace on the floor, which led to an awkward position not even the Karma Sutra had covered, which led to blackmail via picture. Spot knew getting a camera for his mom on her birthday was a bad idea.  
  
"Race, how does she do it? How does she manage to come in with a camera every time something embarrassing happens?"  
  
Race's stomach heaved under Spots butt as he breathed. Spot swiveled his head around, peering at his moaning (in pain) friend. Still in a daze, the other boy replied, "Must be the coffee."  
  
"I'm sorry, am I sitting on something important?"  
  
"No, no, you're good. I only digest my food there."  
  
"Oh, good."  
  
**********************************  
  
"Man, that was some good food."  
  
"Told ya'."  
  
Spot nodded distractedly, his eyes fixed on the TV. Beside him sat Race and a bowl of popcorn, despite Spots claims that he hated popcorn. The way Race saw it, Spot didn't seem to hate it as he stuffed kernels by the handful into his mouth. Spot had been acting weird all morning, and the night before.  
  
Something had happened the night before. Something big. Bigger than New York. Bigger than America! Okay, maybe not that big, but it was still bigger than New York. That he was sticking with. The big deal in question was the fact that Spot Conlon had choked on a nacho the night before.  
  
In the whole existence of their friendship, Spot had never once choked on anything. In the third grade, Spot had hung upside down from the monkey bars eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That kind of thing might have been normal in Brooklyn, but it wasn't normal in Manhattan. He just didn't understand how the food went anywhere...  
  
Anything could slide down Spots throat with the greatest of ease. Uh, like a boat, or an airplane, of course, nothing like... "More popcorn?"  
  
"Mm, wes, pwease!" More and more popcorn went into the cavern. Jeez, a small child could get lost in that mouth.  
  
"Geez, Spot, do you swallow?"  
  
And thus began the awkward silence. So back to the night before. Spot had choked. Then, all he had done was offer some of his drink. It was that or do the Heimlich in the middle of the movie, and it was an exciting movie. He couldn't just miss some of the movie. It was one of those blink and you miss it sort of deals. So peeing was out of the question, which automatically led to the assumption that it wouldn't hurt to offer his drink. If he had known Spot would choke *more*, he wouldn't have offered.  
  
Then, that very morning, Spot had acted like it was a big thing for him to buy them lunch. Race couldn't help but be offended. It wasn't like he was greedy or anything, he just wasn't a very...giving type of guy. That didn't make a person greedy!  
  
Honestly, why would he make such a big deal about it? And why—?  
  
"Holy shit, did you see that?"  
  
Race whistled. "How could I miss it? They're the Laurel and Hardy of redneck women, and Laurel just hit Hardy with a chair!"  
  
"Wow. I thought that was a wig!"  
  
"I think it's just weave."  
  
Spot laughed and scooped up another handful of popcorn. It crunched. Race tried to ignore it as Jerry Springer introduced the "fathers" of Laurel and Hardy's babies.  
  
Crunch. "Man, he's got beady eyes."  
  
Crunch. "What's wrong with beady eyes?"  
  
Crunch. "Nothing, if your father is a rat."  
  
Pause. "Do I have beady eyes?"  
  
Crunch. "No way. Your eyes are bigger than New York."  
  
Cunch. "I have bug eyes? That so beats beady eyes."  
  
Crunch. "Does not."  
  
Swallow. "Does too!"  
  
"I'm the one with the bug eyes. I think I'll be the judge of what beats what here."  
  
Crunch, crunch. "Oh come on, you have pretty eyes and you know it."  
  
Race didn't have a drink, and he didn't know the Heimlich, so it was a bit harder to help Spot this time. It didn't seem Spot needed help though. As soon as Race's hand reached out to help in some way, Spot put his hands out in an obvious 'STOP' signal. Seconds later, a large lump appeared in his throat, followed by the yelling.  
  
Race hated the yelling, simply because it always came with that damn poking finger. He had at least twenty bruises from that month alone from all of Spots accusations. They weren't even good ones!  
  
"I knew it!" Spot cried in a scandalized voice. "You have a crush on me."  
  
Race opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off. "I mean, first with the drink, then with the lunch, now you're complimenting me! You have a total crush on me!"  
  
The drink...? "You were choking, I offered you a drink! I'm sorry if that was flirtatious in some way. I was going for heroic."  
  
"Heroic? I choked after you offered me the drink. Plus, your spit was all over the straw."  
  
"I don't drool on my straws!"  
  
Spot sent him a poisonous glare. "You are a closet straw-drooler!"  
  
"Those don't exist! Stop poking me you damn...Poker!"  
  
"I can't believe you have a crush on me!"  
  
"If anything, Sean Conlon, you have a crush on me. Always asking me to go to the movies, always wanting me to come spend the night, choking when I offer you something with HINTS of my saliva on it. You have a crush on me, not the other way around."  
  
"I'm not gay!"  
  
"Could have fooled me!"  
  
There was a quick shuffle of feet as Spot hopped off the couch and struggled to get to the door in his non-slip-proof socks. With a huff and a pout, he turned back to Race. "I'm leaving!"  
  
Then he was gone. There was a moment of silence, wherein Race sat with the popcorn in his lap, and a commercial gleamed on the television. The knocking on the door was easy enough to hear, and Race didn't hesitate to answer it, as angry as he was.  
  
Spot stood there, his eyes large and watery. 'Those aren't bug eyes,' Race told himself, 'they're very pretty eyes.'  
  
"This is my apartment. Could you leave please?" Blue eyes got a little more watery, and like magic, Race was gone. It wasn't so magical though, since Spot could hear Race's rapidly departing footsteps.  
  
He slammed the door shut, and made his way to the fridge. Now was not a time for popcorn, now was a time for ice cream. Good thing his mom had bought that new tub of chocolate chocolate chunk. When the freezer was opened, he lifted his face to let the cold air wash over his face.  
  
He proceeded to gather up the ice cream and a giant spoon before plopping back onto the couch and find something better to watch. Jerry Springer just wasn't right for this kind of thing.  
  
Race always had to ruin things, didn't he? Damn him and his big Italian mouth. It was kind of cute, though, when he ran into something and cursed in Italian. It reminded Spot of Ricky Ricardo. Oh god, did that make Spot Lucy?  
  
Ow! Brain freeze! It...It wasn't like they were married or something. Best friends were supposed to have quarrels. Wait—damn it, it was the lovers who had the quarrels. Well that just ruined everything.  
  
How could Race accuse him of having a crush on him? He wasn't gay; he had had plenty of girlfriends, just like Race. Sometimes he just thought of how attractive Race was, and what good...features he had. That was perfectly normal though.  
  
He shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, letting out a part chuckle, part sob. Race was the weirdest guy he knew, with the weirdest habits. Like the way he always talked while he ate, and the way he looked under the bed before he went to bed at night, the way he pulled away all the covers during the night and threw them off the bed, the way he brushed his teeth and hair at the same time, his little duck-like laugh...Spot was laughing so hard he was afraid ice cream would come out of his nose.  
  
Racetrack could be so damn infuriating. Spot was so mad, so confused, so lost, so totally in love with Race he couldn't stand it. Well, he couldn't admit that to Race. He just needed a good excuse to go see who he hoped was still his best friend.  
  
With a sudden burst of inspiration, he put the ice cream away before heading to his room. He wondered briefly if he had mourned with the ice cream long enough. Hmm. Oh well, he could always finish later. Chocolate chocolate chunk was his favorite. Now, where was he going? Oh, right, the closet.  
  
Everything was still color-coded—which had been Race's stupid idea—but he didn't mind fixing that. It only took...forty seconds to rip off every post- it that had a certain color written on it. Then, to make sure he couldn't remember any of the colors, he pulled out all of the hangers and threw the clothes on the floor. It seemed it would take a little longer than he thought.  
  
*****************************  
  
Spot always had to ruin things, didn't he? Damn him and his big mouth. He just opened it and something cute came out. Race smacked himself in the head. Something stupid came out, that's what he meant. Spot wasn't cute. Well maybe he was a little cute.  
  
So maybe he had a tiny crush. It was hardly noticeable. He only thought some thing about Spot were cute, that was all. Like his dimples. Race had a thing for dimples. Come to think of it, he had always gone for girls with short blond hair, blue eyes, and those little dimples. Of course no smile could compare with the Conlon smile. It had a certain charm to it, something that called for a second glance.  
  
Pfft, what was Race doing just standing in his room thinking of his best friends smile? That could hardly be classified as normal. But then, that was the problem, wasn't it? Everything had to be normal. Well, that was bullshit.  
  
Nothing about Spot and Race was normal. They slept in the same bed like it was a second nature, Race picked out Spot's clothes, they ate off of each others plates like a married couple, and, come to thing of it...Every time Spot had hung upside down from the monkey bars in third grade, he had given half of his sandwich to Race, who sat atop the bars watching over his friend. They had always ignored it when the kids made fun of them, except when Jack Kelley had poked fun at Spot, who untangled himself from the bars in two seconds to go kick the other third graders ass.  
  
Spot was an amazing friend, and completely out of the ordinary. He remembered the first time Spot had told him he was colorblind. It was Valentines Day, fourth grade, and Race was talking about roses. His mom had told him different colored roses meant different things. Race had explained to Spot that yellow meant friendship, and that night, Spot showed up at Race's apartment for dinner with a bouquet of red roses in his hand. Red, for love.  
  
"Stupid," Race had said, although he accepted the roses, "I said yellow. These are red."  
  
Spot had looked at him a moment before turning and walking away. Nine-year- old Race had concluded Spot was trying to admit his love for Race, and felt guilty. Ergo the quarter mile chase to find his best friend.  
  
They settled it in the middle of the sidewalk, their screams attracting unwanted attention. "Who would be in love with you? You talk funny!"  
  
"I'm from Italy!" Race had said, shoving Spot.  
  
Come to think of it, that was also the first time Spot used that damned finger against him. It always came back to the finger. "Yeah, well, people talk like idiots there!"  
  
"You're the idiot! You can't even tell the difference between red and yellow!"  
  
"I can't see colors."  
  
Nine-year-old Race didn't understand the concept. "Everyone can see color."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"I always wondered why you wear that brown shirt with the black pants."  
  
Spot had laughed, his dimples appearing. "Well, maybe I need some help."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
The doorbell was ringing. Shit! Race looked around, his eyes unfocused. It cleared soon after, and he rushed for the door. As his hand went for the handle, the telephone rung. Then the knocking began.  
  
"HANG ON!" Race yelled, his thickly accented voice breaking.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Anthony?"  
  
Race sighed—of all the times for his mother to call.  
  
"Yeah, ma?"  
  
"How was your day, honey?"  
  
"It was great, ma."  
  
"Good. Well, I'll be home late, so I left some food for you and Spot in the oven, just reheat it for a few minutes, it should be perfect."  
  
"Your food is always perfect."  
  
"Flatterer!"  
  
"Who, me?"  
  
"Oh, I almost forgot. We are going to the early mass tomorrow, so make sure Spot has some nice church clothes. And Anthony, please make sure he matches this time."  
  
"Sure, ma. Talk to you later."  
  
"Okay, I love you."  
  
Race rolled his eyes. "Ma...love you too."  
  
So, the door. Maybe whoever was there would like to join him for dinner, since Spot probably wouldn't show. With a ragged sigh, he yanked open the door. And blinked.  
  
Large blue eyes stared back at him, but they certainly weren't Spots. "Davey!" Race cringed. He could have pretended to be a little more excited to see his friend. "What can I do ya for?"  
  
David fidgeted before walking into Race's apartment. Which was weird, because Race couldn't remember inviting him in. It seemed to be a pattern in their little circle of friends. No one ever felt like they had to be invited into Race's household.  
  
"Well," David began, "Jack and I got in a stupid fight, and I would have gone home, but Jack would look there first."  
  
Race didn't feel the need to tell David that was because they lived together.  
  
"So I went to Spots, but his ma answered, and she was all tired from work, and saying how Spots locked himself in his room, so I figured hey, I'd come to you."  
  
"Yay," Race chimed. His brain wouldn't move past the fact that Spot was upset. He had to see Spot. "Look, Dave, you stay and watch TV or something. Be gone in an hour."  
  
Once he was gone, David grinned and picked up the phone. He didn't even have to look at the numbers as he dialed. It took two rings before Jack picked up.  
  
"Jack, guess what! Race and Spot are having a lovers quarrel! No, I'm not talking to you, I'm still mad. You were the one who put the red shirt in with the whites. You cannot blame that on me! No! We both know if I didn't tell you about Spot and Race you would have been all upset because I knew and didn't tell you. No! We're still fighting...yes. You have to apologize first...I'd like that a lot...yeah, see you in a bit...you too."  
  
He knew he was right. Jack was always concerned for his friends, and hated it when David withheld information about them, even when they were fighting.  
  
*******************************  
  
Spots mom answered the door, a pleasant—as pleasant as she could get on a Saturday afternoon with only one cup of coffee—smile on her face. "He's in his room," she told him, "go fix him."  
  
The blond evidently needed to be fixed. When Race found him, he was sitting in the middle of a pile of clothes. Race wondered if it was a bad thing that all of the post-its were missing.  
  
"So maybe I have a little crush."  
  
"So maybe I do too."  
  
Race could see the small smile on Spots lips. Then he began to laugh. Spot wore a tie-dye tank top (which was really cruel, once he thought about it) with camouflage pants and mismatched socks.  
  
"I know you're not that colorblind!"  
  
Bright blue eyes turned up to him, amusement clear there. "I was hoping you would help me get dressed."  
  
Race chuckled. He got down on his knees and crawled into the large pile. Spotting a light blue button down, he grinned.  
  
"Now this," he said quietly, picking it up and placing it on Spots cheek, "would go good with your eyes. They look like the sky."  
  
Spot didn't miss the way Race's eyes flickered down to his lips as he drug the blue material over Spots skin. He gulped nervously and counted to three in his head. Once he reached three, his head shot up and he pressed his lips to Races.  
  
He barely had time to think of how nice it was, or compare it to something really nice before there was a bright light and a clicking noise. Both of them flew apart, casting guilty eyes on Spots mother, who stood there smirking with a camera. She took another picture of their flushing faces and walked away.  
  
"How the hell does she do that?" Spot shrilled, his voice cracking.  
  
Lips settled on his again. Ah, that was better. Race tasted like sunshine and happiness. Okay that was a little too sappy. Really think, he told himself. He ran his tongue along Races lower lip, ignoring the pleased sound he got in return. Race tasted...he tasted...arrrg! Warm, soft, smooth, and friendly, but with a hint of something else there. Race had told him about some sort of roses one time when they were younger. What was it? Red for friendship? No. Yellow.  
  
"You taste like yellow!" Spot cried, his mouth still against Races.  
  
When Race laughed Spot could feel the breath on his lips. "I thought you was colorblind."  
  
"I am. And you was suppose to say, ' I think it's the coffee.'"  
  
"Uh, yeah, I was going to, but you kissed me!"  
  
"There was enough time to say it."  
  
"Like hell there was!"  
  
"You calling me a liar?"  
  
"Maybe!"  
  
"Yeah, well, maybe I hate you."  
  
"Yeah? Your comebacks suck!"  
  
"You suck!"  
  
"Your mom sucks!"  
  
Race began to laugh. So did Spot, especially when Spots mom called back, "I heard that!"  
  
Yeah, nothing was really normal with them. Spot was colorblind, Race was Italian, and they fit together like a black and white puzzle. Those were the best kind, in Spots opinion. Well, those, and the ones with a little bit of yellow.  
  
Unable to think of anything else to do, he kissed Race again.  
  
*END*  
  
Okay, that was it. Longest one in a while, hope it wasn't too off-focus. I've been meaning to do a Spot/Race for a while now, but nothing would come to me. Thank goodness for semi-friends, right?  
  
Okay, you know the drill. Leave me some love, leave me some hate, just leave me SOMETHING. I know there's a review button down there. CLICK IT! CLICK IT!  
  
Please. ^___^ 


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